


kill the wolf someday

by Anonymous



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Period Typical Attitudes, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest, dubcon, not violent but, yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 05:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Into the woods.
Relationships: Thorgil/Olmar (Vinland Saga)
Kudos: 5
Collections: Anonymous





	kill the wolf someday

The wolf's been out there a few weeks now, making visits by night to the edges of the farm to carry off livestock. Its visits are infrequent, and its meals confined to animals small enough to carry away, so it's only a few days into Thorgil's visit home that anyone finally notices the telltale drips of blood on grass that say no human is to blame for the vanished stock. Then there's talk about the way to handle it, enough to spill over into mealtime chatter. No one wants to make it the farm's highest priority since its takings have been so minor, but it's bound to escalate if left alone too long. Nobody wants to put themselves forward, either, not without a handful of other volunteers, and the discussion stalls as the midday meal comes to a close.

"Idiots," Thorgil says, draining his horn. "Wolf-hunting's a solo effort. Two, three men at the most. They've got powerful ears. They can hear a group coming a mile away."

"I'd like to see a wolf in action someday," Olmar says, almost to himself. "Bet I'd teach it a lesson or two."

"Why not?" Thorgil slams the horn down, making Olmar jump a little. "What d'you say, Olmar? Little camping trip, just you and me. Could teach you to use a bow and fend for yourself like you would on a campaign."

"Shit, yeah!" Olmar says excitedly. "We're gonna feed that wolf its own tail!" Then he slumps. "I bet Dad'd say no, though. I'm like a friggin' prisoner here. He'd never let me go hunting anything bigger than a rabbit."

"Yeah," says Thorgil. "I bet he wouldn't."

They leave after dark, Thorgil leaving word with one of the slaves to let Dad know in the morning. Dad'll be pissed, but Olmar suspects he won't bother sending anyone after them. He hopes not, anyway. He's not sure how highly Thorgil values the lives of the help, hired or otherwise. Dad's got that bug up his butt about the slaves having dignity or whatever, and it'll make the rest of the visit real awkward if Thorgil snaps enough ribs to put someone out of commission.

The dark makes him think of sneaking out to get laid, and he's so close to getting stiff that it's awkward when Thorgil slaps him on the back. He laughs and hopes it sounds boisterous and not nervous. They leave the horses tied to a tree at the very edge of the forest for the slave to come fetch in the morning. Olmar doesn't ask how his brother's planning to carry the wolf carcass back; he suspects Thorgil's ready to wear the bloody skin home on his back. Or make him do it. He shudders a little but resolves to rise to the occasion if he has to.

The first day is good, like something out of a dream. They brought food enough for breakfast, and during the day he gets a hare on his very first shot, one he was sure he'd miss, and Thorgil laughs with excitement and throws an arm around his shoulder. The stew doesn't have as much meat as he's used to but he goes to sleep pleased with himself.

On the second morning Thorgil gets a pheasant, of all things—it seems like the last thing Thorgil would bother learning to how to catch, but he shows Olmar the snare he set up before dawn and makes him wait around until a bird steps in. The wolf can wait, he says. There's a proper order to these things. He snaps the pheasant's neck, and tracks its nest in a matter of minutes, it seems like. Olmar doesn't know why his brother has to be a master of _every_ way to possibly kill something, but he's determined to prove himself when the wolf shows up. Birds aren't sword work, after all. He's gotta save himself.

They split the pheasant for lunch, and Thorgil has the chicks for dessert. They go down so fast Olmar half expects to hear his brother coughing up little bones as they make their way deeper into the forest.

Thorgil's explaining his reasoning about the ‘pheasants and rabbits first' thing. Olmar's doing his best to listen, but his attention is starting to wander.

"In a lot of ways, the wolf _is_ its territory. So conquering the wolf starts with the forest. You work your way through all the littler animals and that's how you master the wolf. Kind of a spiritual thing. You get that?"

"Um...." He struggles for a second. "Not really."

"Good, because it's bullshit." Thorgil laughs. "You've just gotta learn to move quietly first. You stomp around louder than the hounds of frigging—_ugh!_"

"Is that really gonna help me in a fight?" Olmar asks. He almost bumps into Thorgil as he does. "You okay? You see the wolf or something?"

"Branch to the face. Fuck's sake," Thorgil says. "Didn't even see it. We've gotta have Dad send some slaves out and get the place trimmed."

The tree looks pretty easy to spot to Olmar, but maybe that's just because he had warning. Its bark is an almost silver shade of white, and the flowers on its branches are almost unnaturally delicate. It must be just starting to bloom now, way out of season. He almost feels bad for it, trapped out here with no one to appreciate it.

"Come on, get a move on." Thorgil sounds pissed. Even a branch must be able to compromise a man's Viking pride if it scores a good enough hit.

"Coming! Ow!"

"Now what?"

"‘Nother branch. You're right, these things are real fuckers." Olmar wipes his nose and glares at the tree. Two attacks on his family in the same day? Well, that's the end of _his_ sympathy. He almost draws his sword, then reconsiders and settles for snapping the offending branch off and flinging it in the opposite direction.

He could've sworn those branches were all concentrated at his brother's eye level, too.

"I took care of it, bro," he says, catching up. "It's not gonna get me a second time."

"Congratulations. You finally found an opponent on your own level." He does seem pleased, though.

They stop not to eat but because Thorgil just stops walking. It's a clearing, sure, but Olmar doesn't see anything special about it. Maybe Thorgil can smell deer or something, he wouldn't be surprised. Looking around for whatever's caught his brother's attention, he wipes his nose again.

"Olmar," Thorgil says in his ear. Olmar jumps at how close he is suddenly. His voice is strange, almost crooning. "Ain't you smelling good today."

"Uh, thanks." He probably should've bathed before they left, but he's pretty proud of how manly his sweat's gotten lately. Probably Thorgil recognizes it from all his thegn buddies on the battlefield. He's about to ask if that's it when Thorgil puts an arm around him and pulls him in.

"Know what you smell like, little bro?" Their foreheads are almost touching and Olmar can smell lunch on Thorgil's breath. His brother sounds like Olmar always imagined he would with a woman, softer than he's ever spoken to Olmar, even before he went off to war. "Making me think of something reeeal nice."

"Bro?" His own voice rides up high; he has _no_ idea how to answer that. "Th-Thorgil?"

Thorgil's head jerks back, disgust on his face and his voice returning to normal. "Gah! Fuck! What's going on here?"

He coughs, not bothering to hold his hand up, just glaring at Olmar like he's expecting an answer. As if Olmar knows what the hell's going on. Then Thorgil coughs again into his hand, and looks at it.

"Bro? You gettin' sick?" He's never seen his older brother sick. It doesn't seem like any bad air could possibly fight its way into that body. He tries to imagine his odds of dragging Thorgil back home if he goes down out here. Not good.

"Shit," Thorgil says. "Those flowers."

"Those ones that got in your face? What the hell could they—"

"Oh, just get a whole bunch of pollen right down my throat, and quite possibly yours too." He holds up a hand with a silver sheen in the center, a spot that glitters gently even with the trees high all around them, blotting out the rays of the sun. "_Fuck!_" Thorgil says again.

"You think breathing in some pollen's gonna kill you?"

No answer. Thorgil just keeps staring at his hand, his breathing rough and heavy.

"I don't mind turning around if you really need to," Olmar tries again. "You sure you wanna head home over some flowers, though? I might be forced to tell pretty much everybody I know about you losing a fight to a tree." Not that he's on gossip terms with too many people, but just the idea might snap Thorgil back to his senses.

"On your knees."

Olmar's never quite managed to say that to a woman, but he's had his share of fantasies about doing it. So he knows the meaning behind what his brother's saying. He just can't believe he's hearing it.

"Wh-_what?_"

"Congratulations, Olmar," Thorgil says, starting to undo his belt. "You've just been drafted for a very special army duty. Did you hear me? Knees. Now."

Olmar sinks to his knees almost automatically—that's Thorgil's most commanding Warrior Of The North voice—but his mind is still whirling. "Bro, I don't think this is... I think that pollen stuff is making you crazy or something."

"Look," Thorgil says. "I have no idea what that tree's big plan is, grant you that. What I do have is a raging hard on that needs seeing to, and if I don't get this pressure taken off, I might just fuckin' die. Out here in the woods, miles from any battle, killed by, let me emphasize, a motherfucking flower. You okay with that?"

Olmar hesitates. "You think... you think it's some witchcraft shit?" People do all kinds of weird things because of witchcraft, yeah, but...

"I think whatever those flowers put in me is coming out, one way or another. And I'd say it's pretty obvious where the outlet is." His pants sag and reveal a lump beneath his tunic. Then he lifts his tunic and Olmar's reminded of the horse stable back at the farm. "Now, do I sound crazy to you?"

Olmar stares at the behemoth in front of him. Then he looks up. Kneeling, he barely comes to crotch height on his brother. It's true Thorgil doesn't sound as weird as he did before, but the fact that he's standing in front of his little brother with a massive stiffy doesn't say a lot in his favor. Olmar sure loses whatever he's been working up to whenever Dad comes storming in, yelling about how he's wasting the whole gods-given working day sleeping in past noon.

Maybe some things make just your body go crazy, and leave your mind alone to live with it.

"You really want—I mean, am I your only option? ‘Cause—‘cause this is against..."

"You see anyone else? Anybody else here to take care of this?"

Is this really his problem to solve just because he's here? Does he become the man for the job—this _huge_ job—just because it's his brother, and they're out here together, and he's a man?

Olmar wipes his nose nervously. Thorgil's hand comes up to his face. It's as warm as his arm was the day before.

Shit. He thinks he might be just that man. He thinks he might have to be.

"Is this really an army job?" He tries to open his mouth a little and gets it open just a crack.

Thorgil grins. "We call it hole duty." Then he spreads Olmar's mouth wider, two-handed, and shoves his cock inside.

For a second Olmar thinks he's going to choke. Then another panic starts to set in, before Thorgil's voice becomes clear, telling him to breathe through his nose. He breathes once, then twice. Kneeling there with his brother's prick in his mouth, he starts to feel slightly sick. The pollen, he realizes with a start. Thorgil's right, it got him too. He reaches down, his stomach tight and his groin lighting up like a wildfire, and tries to take care of himself furtively, but Thorgil's hands are moving his head back and forth impatiently and it's impossible to keep his arms steady. Finally he just grabs Thorgil's legs and tries to stay balanced on his knees while his big brother fucks his face. It feels like his head's getting fucked empty, and he lets himself go blank and light-headed.

His cock doesn't seem to mind that he's not touching it. It keeps heating him up, telling him it can stay up as long as necessary, he's going to keep feeling this until something stronger steps in, and to the extent he's capable of thought, he understands now exactly why Thorgil's doing this. A little moan escapes him, or what would be a moan if he could make any sound at all. Thorgil's hands tighten around the sides of his head, the scars smooth on his cheeks, and he moans again, harder. Thorgil has to shove him off when he finally pulls out.

"Hhaaah!" It's a long, drawn out sound. Something splatters on his face, a lot of it, before he can even register his mouth's empty now. It's as warm on his face as his own is in his hands, and he knows exactly what he's covered in.

_That could've been my nephew,_ he thinks. The world is swimming and Olmar realizes there are tears in his eyes. _Hell, it could've been two nephews._

"Again," Thorgil says.

"_Again_!?" Olmar tries to focus his gaze and sees that yes, indeed, his brother's cock is still scary big and scary hard.

"Again," Thorgil says curtly. "Arse this time. I never use the same hole twice in a row."

Olmar licks the inside of his mouth, trying to get used to words again. "It got me too, bro. I need to, um—I mean, you know..." He can't get the word out without blushing even though his face is dripping with it.

"Two birds with one stone, then." Looking down at Olmar, he adds, "This'll get you off too. Usually don't bother with that, but I'll make an exception if you're really that hard up."

"Thanks," Olmar mumbles.

"I'll keep this our little secret too," Thorgil says, spitting on his hand. "Not everyone would understand we're in some extenuating circumstances here. This is witch work, you understand? Womanly forces in the air. Runt like you can't be expected to hold your own."

Olmar doesn't bother arguing the point. It's true and he knows it. If those flowers did this to Thorgil, who could snap him in half, what chance did he ever have?

"You're just providing a much-needed service," Thorgil goes on, pressing him not ungently to the ground and pulling his pants down to the knee. "The sheath to a sword. I'm not gonna hold any of this against you."

Olmar swallows, mouth still dry from excitement as much as anything. "Is your... sword gonna hurt?"

"I'm guessing it feels better than one in your gut," Thorgil says, and spreads Olmar's legs wide. "Lemme know if you ever get the chance to compare."

It doesn't hurt as much as he'd imagined. His brother's cock is already slick with precum, not to mention all that time in his mouth. The initial sting fades and a kind of pleasant numbness takes over, like a salve being applied to his insides. A gift from the flowers, maybe, because it's hard to believe that's normal.

The strain of maintaining control must have been incredible, because his brother loses it completely from the second he slides in. He can feel Thorgil loosening up, can hear him talking in that flower-crazy voice again, calling him sweet things and praising him, and this really must be witchcraft because he fucking loves it. He wants one of those flowers on hand for every time his brother's ever told him to sack up, every time he's asked to borrow his sword to cut a slice of bread, every time he's said a blind deaf and dumb English baby could beat Olmar in a one-on-one. Getting to be king of the world is easier than Olmar ever thought.

"You sweet thing," Thorgil says in his ear, voice thick and husky, and as dazed as he is, Olmar can't help but laugh. Thorgil pulls his face in close again like he did at the very start, and rips a kiss from his mouth that nearly stops his heart.

The jerk when he cums is like nothing he's ever felt. For a second he thinks this is it, this is Ragnarok and he's never even been to war. It feels so good it hurts and when it stops the emptiness hurts more. It's like Valhalla being ripped away. His ears are ringing even before his brother spears him to the ground with one final, howling thrust.

"Fuck," Thorgil says when they can talk again. "That was like killing ten men."

Back in the land of the living, Olmar's remembering the downsides of those little presents from the flowers. The sodden mess that used to be his arse is reminding him it did _something_ to his brother's balls and it might not be finished yet. Judging from the scene of disaster on Thorgil's tunic, his balls got a pretty good dose too. "D-did I do enough?"

"Ten men in one _stroke_. I could sleep for days." Thorgil flops down on the ground, every inch the practiced soldier ready to make a bed at a moment's notice. "Hell, I just might."

"Bro," Olmar says. "I don't wanna die." It comes out high and pinched.

Thorgil opens an eye. "You still talking?" He sounds back to normal, anyway.

"I don't want you to die either." Olmar knows he's almost begging. He's never been used that hard with a girl. It was twice, too, and he's so fucking tired. There's cum all over his face and he wants to go to sleep. "You can do it again if it'll help."

"Your second day out here and you're turning into a nervous wreck. Not exactly what I was hoping for." 

"I just..." His stomach tightens again, seizing up at the thought of them both drifting off to sleep and lying there forever, bloodless and unmoving. Being found days later, or weeks. Laid to rest side by side in the ground, after the slaves wash his brother's cum off his cold face. "I want us to be okay."

Thorgil eyes him over and motions him down onto the ground beside him, then flings a big arm around him and laughs. "You're just a horny kid, aren'tcha? Well, if it helps you sleep. Which end you want plugged?"

"I'm a _man_," says Olmar, feeling his temper flare for the first time today—but Thorgil's the last one he wants to test his temper out on, especially right now. "M... mouth. Please. My—the other one hurts."

Thorgil guides his head down almost tenderly this time, his fingers stopping to twist the curl on Olmar's forehead. "Everything's gonna be just fine, Olmar. You did good for once. Even if it was just bitch work."

Olmar feels a little bit like things aren't going to be fine, not ever again. But his brother's the one who knows about this stuff, and he's more scared of sounding like a pussy in front of Thorgil than he is of dying, almost.

So he rests his head on Thorgil's thigh, and he does his best to man up and get out every trace of those flowers' influence, and he tries to ignore when his own prick starts stirring up again after he's been sucking his brother's half-soft one for about ten minutes. When he can't get rid of the thoughts about the pollen still maybe being in him, he jacks it right there with Thorgil's hand still resting on his head, and cums normally this time. He thinks Thorgil might actually be asleep by the time his brother finally finishes for the third time, but it feels like a normal one for him, too. Quieter, at least.

Olmar wipes his face off with his sleeve before he finally passes out, and thinks before he does that it barely matters anyway, lying here with his head between his brother's legs. But he lets himself sleep, lets himself know that Thorgil will wake up if anyone comes near them, tries to see them like this. His big brother will take care of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> title from kill the bear someday, a bara comic about the brotherfuck; the line about nothing ever being okay again paraphrased from an incest fic i read years ago, one of my most vividly remembered lines from any fic.
> 
> typo of the year: Thotgil


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